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GllESUGHTDEFOSm 



The Call of California 

And Other Poems of the West 



THE CALL OF 
CALIFORNIA 

And Other Poems 
of the West 

'By 
FRANCIS BORTON 



FIFTH EDITION 
Revised and Enlarged 



RIVERSIDE :: :: CALIFORNIA 

19 2 2 






Copyright 1917, 1921 and 1922, 
Francis Borton 



From the 

STUDIO OF CLYDE BROWNE, PRINTER 

Lot Angeles 



\ 



AUG 22 1322 
C1A687915 



f 



1^ 



SI0 li^ljen 




HE CALL OF 
CALIFORNIA 

And Other Poems of the West 
"By 

FRANCIS BORTON 



The Gall of California 



nHAVE wandered far away, 
Many a long and weary day, 
Through the scenes of which I 
dreamed in days of yore ; 

But I've turned at last to rest 
In the land I love the best. 

And it's California now, — forevermore. 
On the margin of her shining, golden 

shore, 
In the land of birds and blossoms, — ever- 
more. 

CHORUS 

Oh ! my California land. 

Here I pledge my heart and hand. 

For I love but you forever, love you true ; 
With the roses in your hair 
And your lark-songs ev'ry where, 

Underneath your dreamy skies of cloud- 
less blue. 



The Call of California 



From your Missions, old and gray, 
At the crimson close of day 

I can hear the bells a-ringing, soft and 
low; 
While the gay guitar of Spain 
Lends a plaintive, sweet refrain 

From the dim, romantic days of long 
ago,— 
Long ago, long ago, long ago. 

From the Padres and the Dons of long 
ago. 

From Sierras, thunder-riven, 
Shadowy peaks arise to heaven — 

Hooded saints, whose names are bene- 
dicite ; 
From the canon's purple rim 
Downward rolls their matin hymn 

Over golden-fruited valleys to the sea; 

To the murmuring pines beside the shin- 
ing sea. 

Till it mingles with the music of the sea. 

In this sunny land of mine. 
With its honey, oil and wine. 

And its poppy fields aflame with living 
gold; 
In this Eden of the earth 
God is bringing to the birth 

Greater wonders than He wrought in 

days of old; 
In the bold days of old, the days of gold. 
Than He fashioned through the Argo- 
nauts of old. 

(six) 



other Poems of the West 



We have wealth upon the seas. 
Health in every fragrant breeze, 

Rivers bursting from the mountain's 
cloven crest; 
We have leagues of yellow grain — 
Many a cattle-covered plain 

In this orange-blossom kingdom of the 
West, — 
In the free, unfettered, giant-hearted 
West, — 
'Neath the blue and golden banner of the 
West. 

And it's where I want to be, 
California's calling me 

Here to stay forever, never more to roam ; 
Calling me to come and rest 
On her glowing, tawny breast, 

When her fields of bloom are like the 

billow's foam; 
Where the silv'ry olives whisper-welcome 

home; 
While along the hills the doves are call- 
ing — ^home. 




(seven) 



The Call of California 



At the Old Mission 

^c\ HERE'S a sober hush in these solemn 
^y woods. 

There's mystery in the air. 
That seems to pour from the eaves of death ; 

You can feel it everywhere. 

A clear stream brawls through the piney 
dell, 
Where the dove mourns all the day: 
And the breeze dies down to a whisper 
here — 
Where Padres used to pray. 

The waters gush from the broken fount, — 

But sadly, quietly now; 
For gone are the monks who led them 
forth,— 

The turf is green o'er their brow. 

The lizard slides on the tottering walls, 
That were once so brave and strong; 

While the very birds, 'round these ruins 
gray. 
Raise but a plaintive song. 

The cells where brown Franciscans dwelt 

Are ceiled with dank, dark moss; 
So deeply the tooth of Time hath gone 

We can scarcely find a cross! 
The cross, the name and the date grow dim. 

Only the faith remains: 
The monk departs, but his faith endures 

Through the years with their beating 
rains. 

(eight) 



other Poems of the West 



Seventeen hundred and something I find 
In a cell half buried by leaves : — 

A pine tree shoots from the knee-worn 
stones. 
And you'd almost say it grieves. 

The new must prevail — ^the old give place — 

And yet — oh heart of mine — 
There is something that speaks to me out of 
the Past, 

When I stand at this ruined shrine. 

That stirs my heart to its uttermost depths, 
But the reason I do not know, 

When I muse on these symbols of faith and 
love 
From the years of long ago. 

Here were gardens of flowers from far-off 
Spain, 

The olive, the palm and the vine; 
Where bees and butterflies find today 

But sunlight's golden wine; 

Here bells that clashed in the old gray 
towers ; 

And voices of prayer and praise: 
Where brown hands wrought in glad content 

In those dim, forgotten days. 

All this — and more — that may never return, 
While the tides march up and down; — 

The cowl and the cord, and the sandal shoon 
And the Padres' robes of brown. 

(nin%) 



The Call of California 



But ever the best of it all shall bide, 
While rains slant in from the sea; 

The gentleness, kindness and patient faith 
Live yet for you and me. 

And long as the mercy of God shall pour 

Our sea-fogs from His hands. 
Will dreams and deeds of the "Mission 
days" 

Be part of the lore of these lands. 

Bodies and Souls 

IN bridal raiment 
Hand in hand 
Before the priest 
Of God they stand. 

To melting glances 

Mingling breath, 
"Now are ye one,*' 

The good man saith. 

Lips pressed to lips, 
Warm heart to heart, 

And yet how far 
They stand apart. 

Flesh knit to flesh, — 

Not soul to soul, 
Bridgeless billows 

Between them roll. 

(ten) 



other Poems of the West 



Junipero Serra 

JnrtHEN weaklings feared and doubted, 

vl/ While unfaith scoffed and flouted. 

Thou still didst trust, 

And in the dust, 

Prone on thy face, didst pray, 

Till, lo! the sudden ray 

Of hope, — and ev'ry lip. 

Rejoicing cried: "The ship!" 

Deep in eternal granite be it graved 

How, in that hour, was California saved. 

^ >b ^ 
Junipero Serra sleeps today 
By the mission walls at Carmel Bay; 
His task well done, he takes his rest, 
With thin hands crossed on his saintly 

breast: 
While brown hills welcome the winter rains, 
Or lark songs ripple o'er poppied plains; — 
His dreams and deeds in the days of old 
Are part of the lore of our land of gold. 




(eleven) 



The Call of California 



The West 



BLONG our blue Sierra's wall, 
No moldering castles rest; 
But there the Redman's Thunder-bird 
Hath built his lonely nest. 

No hoary donjons, foul with crime, 

Oppress the good, clean sod 
Where live-oaks meet, with knotted arms. 

The blazing bolts of God. 

Instead of doubtful titles stamped 
On pride's dim vellumed page. 

The sullen grizzly here hath left 
The claw marks of his rage. 

No silken halls, no softness here. 

No courtiers, false as hell; 
But from the echoing granite gorge 

The panther's deadly yell! 

Here, laws unflattering, primal, harsh; 

The desert's scorching breath; 
Here, thorn, fang, claw and scalping knife- 

The crimson trail of death! 

And what are man-made kings and courts. 

With cheap, brief honors set. 
Where, in the red, raw clay of things, 

God's thumb-prints yet are wet? 

(twelve) 



I 



other Poem3 of the West 



* * * 

Amid these awful solitudes. 

With skies so still and blue. 
Are held such deadly, fierce debates 

As minstrels never knew. 

Here howling winds of ocean meet 

The wild winds of the sky, 
While vast, dim shapes from desert wastes 

Their spirals wheel on high. 

Cliff calls to cliff; th' avalanche 

Replies in thunders loud, 
While shafts of blinding lightning split 

The swirling, inky cloud. 

That bursts, and ploughs the mountains 
down 

The salt plain's hissing sands. 
Till fresh-torn caiion gulfs reveal 
Earth's granite swaddling bands! 

•!• H* *»• 

And here are men, sons of thy strength. 

Oh, western land of mine. 
Gay, tender, careless, swift and wild. 

But upright as the pine. 

Serene, clear-eyed, of Spartan speech. 

The breed of men out here. 
Who've trailed with hunger, thirst and 

death, 
But never met with fear. 

The wide, free winds are in their hearts, 
The deep-voiced torrent's roar, 

(thirteen) 



The Call of California 



The solemn stillness of the woods, 
Beside the lonely shore. 

They need no finger-posts for faith; 

No self -sure g-o-between; 
They look God in the face and smile; 

Their rugged hearts are clean. 

They pluck the gray wolf from his den; 

They tire the grizzly down, 
Or peacefully their harvests reap 

Along the foothills brown. 

They beat the mountain into dust ; 

They burst its ribs apart; 
Their laughter rings Homeric when 

They clutch its golden heart! 

Alone they win the chill, still heights, 

By mountain sheep untrod ; 
They gaze abroad, they bare their brows 

And shout, "Hurrah for God!" 

Oh, little folk, who cringe and hedge. 

Who cannot understand. 
They tread a broader trail than yours 

Across our Sunset Land, 

Where man is kin to peak and star. 
The wide plain's lonely space ; 

Where oft they ride so close to God 
They meet Him — face to face ! 

(fourteen) 



other Poems of the West 



Mt. Rubidoux at Dawn 

i^\HE mocking birds are singing in the 
\^ eucalyptus tops. 

It's early in the morning, and the fog is 
everywhere; 
The sounds of nature's wakening come to us 
tunefully 
All softly muffled by the misty air. 

The "cotton tails" are hopping in the barley 
by the road ; 
Behind a bush the clucking quail are 
bunched- — about to fly; 
The liquid, melting melody of joyous meadow 
larks 
Like silvery bubbles floats along the sky. 
The "ragged robin" roses spill their nectar 
on the grass 
Before the robber bees, who love the sun, 
are out of bed: 
While drowsy poppies wait to pour libations 
to their lord, 
When in the East he rears his radiant 
head. 
The shimmering, emerald laces of the 
queenly pepper tree 
Are strewn with dewy pearls and fringed 
with flakes of scarlet flame; 
While the orange, dark and lustrous, in her 
robes of green and gold, 
Hath sent through all the earth this val- 
ley's name. 

(fifteen) 



The Call of California 



The golden-dusted mustard pours its fra- 
grance down the hill. 
To where, in marshy tule beds, the noisy 
blackbirds throng: 
The jangle of the cattle bells comes faintly 
from below 
Where the lazy Santa Ana rolls along. 

How sweet the button-sage's breath upon 
the quiet air; 
How fresh and clean the odor from the 
haunting, whispering pines: 
While, spread in wild profusion, where the 
gray old boulders cling, 
The splendor of the morning-glory vines ! 

But now the fog is ebbing fast along Juru- 
pa's hills. 
As over San Jacinto gleam the banners of 
the sun: 
Far up on foot-worn Rubidoux a shining 
cross appears, 
The symbol that the earth's long night is 
done. 




(sixteen) 



other Poems of the West 



The Mission Inn 

^Y^ITH its ivied walls and its cloistered halls 
\\J And a coolness and quietness all its own; 
From its shady bowers to its tuneful towers 
It's a fair dream fashioned in good gray 
stone ; 
With a high ideal everywhere, 
With a fineness of sentiment in the air. 
And music — that soothes like the soul 
of prayer. 

There's bread and meat — ^f or a man must 
eat — 
But there's more than that to make one 
whole : 
The builder's dream had a broader theme 
In this caravansarai for the soul. 
**Sursum corda/' we seem to hear 
From good St. Francis, standing near, 
"Lift up your heart's, and make good 

cheer." 

The saints are gone, yet they still live on; 

Still is their gentle influence felt; 
From niche and nook they kindly look. 
As when Junipero Serra knelt 

And told to Indians swart and wild 
The wondrous tale of the dear Christ- 
child— 
And the love of Mary, the mother mild. 

When the day grows dim. and the vesper 
hymn 

(seventeen) 



The Call of California 



So tunefully sounds in the silvery chimes, 

I seem to hear — far away and clear — 

Voices that speak from the olden times: 

Of sacrifice, better than gold or fame, 

Of love that burned like a fragrant 

flame — 
Till my selfish heart is faint for shame. 

Not for me alone is this sermon in stone, 
Nor only to me do these mute things 
speak : 
Full many a heart has received its part, 
The quiet tear glistened on many a 
cheek ; 
Many a pilgrim has paused to say: 
"Fm glad my heart ever found the way 
To the Mission Inn at the close of day." 




(eighteen) 



other Poems of the West 



Down the Grade with ''Bob'' 

(1874) 

^I^E'VE topped the grade, now for the 

Vl/ other side; 

Sling the buckskin in 'em — let 'er slide. 

We're full of 'Frisco folks and tenderfeet 
That wants some early stagin' — ^here's their 
treat. 

Straighten them tugs — don't let 'em drag 

the dust — 
Hi there! you trottin' pinto, lope er bust. 

A bunch of broncs, and hellions every one- 
Hoop-la, git out-fergit yer shoulder's skun. 

Oh we're all right: my lady, dry yer tears, 
Sit down, my lord, and chase away yer 
fears ; 

The road is twelve feet wide from bluff to 

ledge 
With manzaniller strung along the edge. 

Why, man alive, a Chinymun at night 
Could strike the trail here — why it's out o' 
sight ! 

Git out o' here — you leaders, switch yer 

tails, 
Yer haulin' Uncle Sammy's sacred mails; 

Stretch them there traces, limber up yer 

heels, 
No moseyin' er I'll show you how it feels. 

(nineteen) 



The Call of California 



No bitin* now — you lop-eared antelope — 
You old kyoty — bust it down the slope; 

Jump through them collars — hump yer 

backs 'n git-— 
You haven't turned a hair — now chaw the 

bit. 

Thanks, stranger, yes, — I surely guess I 

could 
Smoke a cigar— gimme a light— that's good; 

There haint no tin-foil cabbage leaves to 

that — 
A Mexican cigar — I'll bet my hat! 

You see, I used tuh run 'em through, you 

know 
Over the Rio Grande from Mexico, 

Some years before that old wheel plug was 

born — 
But here's our hangout — Gabriel toot yer 

horn; 

Grubstake Junction, where they'll treat you 

white. 
The bar-room's blazin' — strangers, will you 

light? 



(twenty) 



other Poems of the West 



The Road by Panama 

OHB old road, the gold road, the road by 
Panama, 

As lurid, ghastly as the path that Dante 
dimly saw, 

Hemmed about by nameless terrors, haunted 
by alarms, — 

The ghosts of treasure-seekers spent, of 
spectral men-at-arms. 

A narrow way and rugged, wild, where jun- 
gle shadows spread 

O'er many a bubbling, slimy pool and hide- 
ous blotch of red. 

Amid its ooze the rotting bones of famished 
Spanish mules. 

The grinning skulls of picaroons and for- 
tune's cheated fools. 

The venomed snake, the vulture keen, the 
deadly fly are there. 

And fetid heaps whose breath is death upon 
the sickly air. 

* * * 

Along the hot, dark forest aisles again we 
seem to hear 

The rush of feet, the clash of blades, the 
hoarse-voiced buccaneer. 

The whistle of the slaver's whip, the screams 
of tortured men. 

Who sink beneath the bloody lash to never 
rise again; 

The silver-laden, grunting mules, with plun- 
der from Peru, 

(twenty-one) 



The Call of California 



The shouts of conquering Cortez' men, of 

Drake and Morgan's crew; 
Pizarro's Spaniards, haggard, weak, with 

fear in every eye. 
Who may not stay nor sleep for ever "on- 
ward** is the cry; 
Who fear the gloom where glows the 

hounded Indian's sleepless hate, 
Where mutilated galley-slaves like panthers 

lie in wait; — 
And so full oft they cross themselves, to 

stout San Yago pray. 
As on they urge with curses foul through 

the hot, weary way. 
Hugging tight their hard-won spoils and 

fainting with desire 
To tread the streets of Panama and lap its 

liquid fire; 
Where painted harpies watch for them, with 

baleful eyes and bold, 
To strip them clean with iron claws and 

leave them stark and cold. 



Oh! the old road, the gold road, the road by 

Panama, 
A rosary of every crime, where lawlessness 

was law. 
Where harvestings of piracies on sea and 

land went by, — 
Thrice cursed treasure black with groans 

and ravished women's cry; 
The minted sweat and blood of branded, 

scarred, Peruvian slaves, 

(twenty -two) 



other Poems of the West 



The riflings of their temples, yea, the win- 
no wings of their graves! 

*P I? Sp 

And later, by this wild highway, with daunt- 
less hearts aflame. 

The boisterous, bearded Argonauts from 
California came; 

In motley rags with belts and bags of un- 
stained virgin ore 

Stripped from the shining, granite ribs of 
Eldorado's shore! 

* * * 

Aye, many a golden trickle ran, through 
many a fearful year 

To swell the rich Pactolus tide of this Hell's 
gullet here. 

But all is hushed and quiet now: they 
passed and left no trace, 

And in the solemn forest shade no eye may 
mark their place. 

They dreamed their dream, they wrought 
their deed of valor or of shame. 

To share alike, some few brief years, an 
infamy of fame! 




(twenty -three) 



The Call of California 



Mexico 

'he is circled with lakes, she is shad- 
owed by mountains, 
Snow-mantled, pine-plumed, under-girded 
with flame; 
She is young, she is old as her sister of Egypt, 
She is ever, forever, yet never the same. 

Fresh is her cheek as her green curving 
valleys, 
Care free her heart as her brown babes at 
rest; 
Bright are her hopes as the eyes of her 
daughters. 
Her passion as fierce as her storms from 
the West. 

Her story as sad as the gloom of her "northers," 
Her struggle as epic as ever was told; 

Her heroes are laureled in valor's Valhalla, 
With coronals woven of nopal and gold. 

Oh, Mexico! heiress of cycles of sorrow, 
Of jungle-grown hieroglyphs, meaningless 
now, 

Of histories, cities, dumb, buried forever, 
Of mysteries dark as the runes on thy brow. 

Glorious with rare carven gems from the ages. 

Waiting the wonderful years yet to be. 
Clasping thy brown hand we hail thee, our 
sister. 
Thou queen, silver throned by thine opal- 
esque sea. 

(twenty -four) 



other Poems of the West 



The Land of the Arriero 

^F^HERE valleys are deep and mountains 

VLI are high 

And the mule-track hangs like a streak in 

the sky, — 
Like a vulture's path through the thin, still 

air 
Far over the "hot lands," shimmering there; 
Where afar and faintly the music swells 
Of quick-stepping, grey mules' silvery bells; 
Where pine trees yield to the pine-apple's 

gold 
And billows of bloom o'er the earth are 

rolled; 
Where the trees drip honey, the sod sweats 

death 
And sucks out your life with its vampire 

breath; 
Where the warm, green heart of that lotus 

land 
Gives all with a care-free, generous hand, — 
*Tis there that the gay arriero's found. 
Where he takes his ease on his own home 

ground. 

Where cataracts thunder, the parrots scream. 
And gorgeous, wonderful butterflies gleam. 
While marvelous birds in their glowing wings 
Wear the royal splendors of Aztec kings; 
Where the wild orange drops its acrid fruit 
Near the strangled, writhing ceiba's root ; 
Where the hiss is heard of the spotted snake 

(twenty-five) 



The Call of California 



As iguanas slide through the bamboo brake; 
Where the tapir crunches the river reeds 
And the jaguar leaps as the red deer feeds; 
And the cayman basks on the sun-baked bar, 
While life, as you knew it, seems dim and 

far; — 
From there do the swart arrieros come, — 
To those mystical beauties blind and dumb. 

They laden their mules with rich, fragrant 

freights: 
Coffee, vanilla, fruits, parrots in crates, 
Sugar, tobacco, raw liquor in casks, 
A mouthful of which arriero asks 
To lighten his heart up the steep, rough road, 
*Neath the scorching sun and the heavy load. 

Lithe as a tigre and tireless of limb. 
Clean moulded in bronze, ev'ry inch of him, 
Son of the sunland, gay, careless and wild, 
Aztec, fierce, passionate, nature's own child, 
His thirty stout mules upward grunting go 
Over the narrow trail, steady and slow; 
Snuffing the pathway that clings to the edge 
Of the sheer down-dropping, slippery ledge; 
The trail that was known to Cortez of old 
Who dreamed of dim valleys paven with gold. 
While crushing the land 'neath his iron-shod 

heel 
When the red years rang to the clash of 

steel! 

How silvery sweet ring the mule-bells there. 
When the dew yet freshens the morning air! 

(twenty- six) 



other Poems of the West 



How merrily sound the songs of the South, 
As carelessly flung from the muleteer's 

mouth : 
Songs of the soil, of the heart, of the sun, 
Of dulce amor or partida won. 
With many a sighing and ay de mi, 
In the high-pitched, Mexican nasal key! 

He's a good paisano, I know him well, 

He hopes there's a heaven, is sure there's a 

hell, 
Trusts in the padre, remembers to pray 
To the blessed saints in his own blind way. 
And slaves for his amo for scanty pay. 
He climbs the wild mountains in sun or 

shower 
And cares for his mules in the darkest 

hour; 
His * amo would grieve for an injured mule. 
As for him, why, he is only a fool. 
Like, a simple hero of low degree 
He dies for his charge if need there be 
And returns to his palm-thatched hut no 

more 
Where his brown babes roll on the cool, 

dirt floor. 



* "Amo," boss. 




(twenty-seven) 



The Call of California 



A Thunder Storm in Puebla 

•'tVROM morning prayer until mid-af- 
X\ ternoon 

The August sun has scorched us to a swoon; 
The languid flowers droop, the pepper trees 
Respond but feebly to the faint, hot breeze. 

The brown hills are a quiyer with the heat: 
Hugging the scanty shade of every street 
The dogs slink by too spent to scratch or 

bark; 
Awhile the beggars cease their whine, when 

hark, — 
Down from the mountain rolls a long, deep 

roar 
And wise "Poblanos" shut and bar the door. 

In thrice three credos old Malinche's brow 
Is swirled in ebon darkness, where but now 
The southern sun poured down a flood of 

gold 
O'er shattered crag and wrinkled lava fold. 

With tropic fierceness falls th* onrushing 

gloom. 
Swiftly the bright day yields its virgin bloom 
To the marauder, thunder-browed, whose 

power 
Swells black to heav'n in this tempestuous 

hour. 
iNow latch the shutters, chain the heavy door. 
Call to the Virgin, all the saints implore 

(twenty-eight) 



other Poems of the West 



As shouting winds and lightning's crooked 

prong 
Urge the slow-footed, bellowing clouds along. 

Jesus, Maria, hearken to the rain 
Flooding the patio while on every pane 
The hailstones beat the very fiend's tatoo. 
And every dust-clogged water-spout a-spew! 
Most Blessed Virgin, we confess our faults, 
(Maria, vida mia, bring my salts). 
Where is Francisco, lazy lout, to burn 
The blessed palm leaves in the incense urn? 

No time for chatter now, nor idle talk. 
When sulphur-breathing demons near us 

walk, 
"Sweet Guadalupe, help us all today, 
To thee we pohres peeadores pray." 

Then suddenly, in one long, furious blast, 
Of lightning, thunder, hail, the storm has 

passed. 
The sun appears, and in the western skies 
The rainbow path that slopes to Paradise! 

Gone are the dolour, darkness, and the gloom, 
Gone every thought of an unwelcome tomb: 
Vaya, mi alma, now the storm is o'er. 
Bid the portero haste, unbar the door, 
Blow out the candles, we shall not be late. 
The tandas won't begin till half-past eight. 



(twenty-nine) 



The Call of Californi 



Taking the Veil (Mexico) 

^rtlTH unbound hair and brown feet bare, 
Vl/ A taper in her hands, 
Within the gloomy convent church 
A dark-eyed maiden stands, 

All corpse-like in a clinging shroud, 

A cross upon her breast, — 
The hour hath come to bid farewell 

To all she loveth best. 

Her virgin heart is dry as dust. 

Her face is like the dead; 
The church hath laid its withering touch 

Upon her fair young head. 

Her thin hand wears a golden band, — 

The mystic wedding ring 
That seals her as the spouse of Christ, 

Her Lover, Bridegroom, King. 

The air is heavy, damp and cold, 

The candles dimly gleam 
While priests about the altar go 

Like figures in a dream. 

They chant the service for the dead. 

For her so wan and still, 
With Kyrie eleison 

From boyish voices shrill. 

O! hapless maid, deceived, betrayed. 
The victim of a vow, 

(thirty) 



other Poems of the West 



To wither in a living death, 
Like Jephtha's daughter now! 

No lover's kiss, no mother's bliss 
Her frozen heart may know, 

Within the convent's coffin walls 
Through years of dumb-lipped woe. 

No more on earth may she behold 

Each well-beloved face; 
No more the circle of the home 

Shall hold for her a place; 

All, all, upon the altar there 

Hath now been sacrificed. 
And so farewell to life and love. 

Farewell, thou bride of Christ. 

One last wild look at love and life, 
One shriek, — and that is all, 

A doleful bell rings like a knell. 
The sable curtains fall. 




(thirty-one) 



The Call of California 



Old House in Puebla, Mexico 

^^HREE hundred years are in these walls, 
^^ These iron-bound doors of oak, 
Whose rugged strength has oft withstood 
Sir Robber's shrewdest stroke. 

The knocker wears a demon's head, — 

Jesu, and well-away; 
A goatish devil, bearded, horned, 

Let him who knocketh pray 

To where above, in battered niche. 

The good St. Francis stands. 
Marked Christwise in his blessed feet 

And in his loving hands. 

The Moorish front is gay with tiles 

Of yellow, green and blue. 
Inwrought in cunning, quaint designs 

As ancient craftsmen knew. 

Rude gargoyles grin from jutting eaves, 

A spout of hammered lead 
Shoots the flat roofs flood to the street 

Through gaping lion's head. 

Above the door an ancient crest. 
Carved in the old grey stone: — 

A tiger couched, a helmet barred, 
A fist that grips its own! 

They say the house is haunted, cursed. 
And show a bloody stain 

(thirty-two) 



other Poems of the West 



Linked with a tale of love and gold 
Prom the old Spanish Main. 

Groat spiders lurk In corners dim, 

Foul bats breed in the wall; 
At night, when worm-gnawed timbers creak, 

Faint whispers fill the hall, 

From lips of dust, from love betrayed, 
From woman's vengeful heart. 

Whose clinging curse from these old stones 
May nevermore depart. 



A Mexican Beggar 

©ECAUSE he was so old, deformed and 
poor. 
Because he bent so meekly his hoar head. 
Because he bore the dignity of sorrow 
AS some king begging in a beggar's guist>, 
Because he was so thankful for the trifle 
Carelessly tossed him from my surplus 

store: — 
Because of his bare feet and tattered rags — 
His thin grey locks and utter misery, 
I rested but uneasily that night. 
Dreaming of Dives, Lazarus and their lesson, 
Of creed and church, of apostolic faith. 
Of orthodox confessions and professions — 
Strange a street beggar should disturb me 

so! 

(thirty-three) 



The Call of California 

A Glimpse of Mexico 
at Home 

I^nHE windows frown with heavy bars of 
Vl/ iron; 

The great zagnan is like some castle door, 
Spiked, bolted, chained and solid as the wall, 
With quaint bronze knocker o'er the wicket 
hung. 

For there were times, whose memory still is 

fresh, 
When great need was of such stout doors as 

these, — 
When bold Sir Robber, loud-voiced, sword 

in hand. 
Knocked not so gently as we knock today. 

Three centuries are seen in this zaguan 

Of evolution, liberty and law; 

And twenty centuries are in the cry 

Of the porterOy fumbling at the bar. 

Who calls quien es? before he slips the 

chain. 
As porters in the dim days of the Christ. 

Yo Sopf we cry, — ^the old man hears and 

knows 
The accents of his patron's welcome voice. 
Drops the huge chain, slides back the bar, 

and we 
Are in the patio of a Mexic home! 

(thirty -four) 



other Poems of the West 



Coolness and rest; a fountain in the midst, 
Decked with quaint carvings, murmurs 

drowsily; 
The solid, whitened arches all about, 
Have brought us to the ancient Moorish 

Spain, 
Shutting us from the modern world outside, 
Into the home life of Cid Campeador! 

Flowers everywhere, in Talavera pots. 

In shattered ollas, broken sugar moulds. 

While orchids, cactus, bloom in great ox 

horns 
Hung from rude spikes thrust in the old 

stone wall. 

Chatter of women 'round the plashing fount, 
Brown, shirtless ninos creeping in the sun; 
And over all, laughter and glad content,^- 
Happy, though poor, these simple Mexicans. 

Within the house we find the constant lamp 
Of turnip oil before tb'j Virgin placed, — 
Sweet symbol of a fr.xth that will not die; 
Chromes of hell dA heaven, angels, fiends. 
The good man jorne to glory, while foul 

devils 
All hoofed ^nd horned, bear the bold sinner 

henr j. 
To re^ hell shrieking, — all in vivid hues, — 
No ^ xace for "higher criticism'* there. 

'^ ne almanac hangs open on the wall 
To mark the saint's days of the mother 
church; 

(thirty-five) 



The Call of California 



Rude charcoal burners from the pine-clad 

slopes 
Of dark Malinche, farmers, artisans, 
The rich and poor, all guard the "holy days," 
And even butchers close their reeking stalls. 

You cannot know, you cannot understand 
You careless tourist from the outside world, 
You do not, cannot feel the inner life 
That throbs in Mexico, the guide-books fall, 
They may not give the "open sesame: — " 

The patios where crystal fountains drip, 
Where women gossip when the air is cool. 
The courtesy, the kindness, filial love 
That links the home hearts here in Mexico. 

From polished hoop the parrot swings and 

screams 
In fluent Spanish all the drowsy day; 
The lavanderas swash their clothes near by 
Where brown babes crawl, in naked comfort 

free, — 
"Race suicide," a thing undreamed of here! 

Compadres and comadres, wrinkled, grey. 
Still use the customs of old Abram's time. 
Poetic, patriarchal, — poured round all 
The silver melody of Spanish speech! 

Servants grown old in service of their friend, 
Their lord and amo, master of their lives 
Who serve for love and the sweet "nifio's" 

sake. — 
Faithful till death, — there are such servants 

here. 

(thirty-six) 



other Poems of the West 



And over all this inner life of ours 

In lippling waves, a heart-born laughter 

flows, 
A simple happiness and sweet content. 
How much there is that money cannot buy. 
That may be found here in this ancient land; 
Things the heart hungers for, the pearls of 

faith, 
Strange, but you'll find them with these 

Mexicans; 

But not for sale, nor saleable for such 
Are the choice fruits of simple lives that 

hold 
Fast to the principles our fathers knew. 
When they were glad and grateful in their 

day 
For rain and sunshine, harvest and a home. 
And sweet babes growing heavenward from 

the hearth, — 
Yea, such things may be found in Mexico! 




(thirty-seven) 



The Call of California 



In the Days of the Buccaneers 



m 



iHERE Palo Verde broods above 
The never quiet waves, 
That burst in thunder far within 

Her pearl-enameled caves, 
Alone, upon the sea-birds' ledge 

That overhangs the bay, 
I watch the fleet of fishers creeping 

Catalina way; 
The lumber schooners warping in, 

All redolent of pine. 
The deep-sea freighters at their docks 

Where donkey-engines whine; 
I trace the sea-wall's sheltering arm 
That holds the harbor light 
To cheer the channel coasters through 
The wild Southeaster's night. 
And, while the shining steamers pass 
Like shuttles to and fro. 
Before my eyes there seem to rise 

The days of long ago. 
Seen through the veil of vanished years 

How dim and far they seem, — 
The treasure ship, the pirate's gold, — 

A half remembered dream! 

THE GALLEON 

Beyond the bay, Manila bound, 

I see the galleon go. 
Deep laden with her silver spoil 

From mines in Mexico. 

(thirty-eight) 



other Poems of the West 



Her fat hull lined with dye-woods, gums, 

Rude bales of wrinkled hides, 
Pearls, ginseng, crimson cochineal 

And bezoar stones besides. 

Athwart the high, embattled poop 

Her stately name unrolled, — 
"La Trinidad Santisima," 

In carven scrolls of gold. 

Her culvYins huge, of Moorish bronze. 
Each duly named and blessed. 

Reveal th' armourer's utmost art, — 
On each the royal crest. 

High overhead, with Cross blood-red, 

The banner of Castile, 
While clad in shining Milan mail 

From haughty head to heel, 

The blue-veined Don looks proudly down 

Along her castled walls. 
Silent save when to ear-ringed men 

His silver trumpet calls. 

The crew, right sturdy villains all, 

By dreams of plunder led; 
Bound turban wise with gaudy scarves 

Each scarred, ferocious head. 

While mingled with them friars grey. 
Who deem the world but dross. 

So might they bear to heathen lands 
The mystery of the Cross. 

(thirty-nine) 



The Call of California 



With glorious eyes of Andaluz 

And rippling, ebon hair 
A grieving daughter bends beside 

Her gray-beard father there 

And stares as one distraught upon 

The cold and cruel sea, 
Or breathes soft prayers to pitying saints 

With many an ay de mi! 

Sweet Jesus, will she see once more 

Her sun-bright Spanish home 
Beyond the fields of bitter brine, 

The weary leagues of foam? 

Don Captain Vasco de Guzman, 

A valiant Spaniard he, 
Who fears not any shape that haunts 

The vast, mysterious sea: 

The hippocamp with leathern wings. 

The serpent-headed whale. 
The fearful kraken, slimy, huge. 

With scales like brazen mail; 

Whose writhing arms suck down the ships 

Swirled in an inky tide: — 
The crested dragons spouting flame 

On whom the mermen ride: — 

When sandaled pilgrims, whisp'ring tell 

Of such foul worms as these, 
That rear aloft their hideous heads 

In strange, uncharted seas, 

(forty) 



other Poems of the West 



With swelling Spanish oaths the Don 

Will stun the douhting ear, — 
How all such scurvy cattle he 

Has seen, hut cannot fear; 

Not them, nor all the roaring fiends 

Astride the tempest's blast: — 
For why, — he hath a holy bone 

Safe bedded in the mast! 

A gracious bone, most potent, rare. 
From good San Yago's shrine, — 

The foul fiend's self dare not draw near 
Where that sweet bone doth shine! 

Yet one there was whose dreaded name 
Could chill the Don with fear: — 

Bill Hawkins, heretic accursed. 
The English buccaneer! 

The picture shifts, the galleon's gone, 

Through mists of silver spray 
And now the wolfish pirate ship 

Comes snuffing up the bay. 

THE PIRATES 

For long, long years the Silver Seas 

That name of terror knew, — 
Bill Hawkins, monster, merciless. 

And his ferocious crew 

Of crop-eared knaves, scarred galley slaves, 
And rogues with branded hands. 

Gaol fruit to weight the gallows tree, — 
Swept up in many lands. 

(forty -one) 



The Call of California 



From Maracaibo to Peru, 

From Vera Cruz to Spain 
Their crimson crimes unnameable 

Had left a bloody train. 

Each scuttled ship a blazing tomb 

With ne'er a breath of life; — 
One swift grim law for all, — the plank. 

Rope, pistol, pike or knife! 

With wolfish eyes they share the prize. 
With many a murderous blow; — 

The jolly Roger overhead, 
The ghastly decks below; 

They broach the rum, the fiddlers come, 

Around and 'round they reel; 
They've diced with Death, the game is theirs. 

With a dead man at the wheel! 

And while their hellish revelry 

Affronts the quiet skies 
They're off again for Port o' Spain 

And some fat galleon prize. 

So grew their glittering, golden spoil 

But ah, the shrieks and tears, 
The gurgling groans that blackened it 

Through wild, crime-crusted years; 

That treasure wrung from bursting hearts. 

From pallid hands of woe, 
By tortures sharp and exquisite 

As only devils know. 

(forty-two) 



other Poems of the West 



But when at last the lion's paw 

Upon Bill Hawkins fell 
The bulk of their huge hoard was gone 

And where, — no man could tell. 

In clanking chains they hung him high 

At Execution Dock. 
Yet to the end he snapped and cursed, 

His heart like any rock. 

He would not tell, nor ever told, 

He left no faintest clew. 
No map nor scrap to guide the greed 

Of his rapacious crew, 

Who searched in vain through all their 
haunts. 

On many a shining shore. 
By cave and cliff, by tree and tower 

A twelve months* space or more. 

By rum and riot some were slain. 

And some by foul disease. 
Some rotted in the festering slime 

Of dungeons overseas; 

Upon the rack some howled their last, 

Too few the gibbet bore; 
To open sea the rest won free. 

And there an oath they swore. 

To seek far off in Western seas 

Bill Hawkin's hidden lair 
For hlack-faced Anak in a dream 

Had seen the treasure there! 

(forty-three) 



The Call of California 



Then Westward Ho! away they go. 

They cross the Silver Seas 
Whose coral Islands oft had known 

Their merry devilries. 

On, on they sail till warm winds fail, 

They curse the ice and snow: 
Again the black man dreams his dream. 

And onward aye they go. 

Around the utmost icy cape 

They wrestle with the blast; 
Then shift their sails to milder gales 

And trust the worst is past. 

They sight Peru, "Spain's treasure chest,*'- 

The land Pizarro won, 
(It's jeweled temples paved with gold). 

From Incas of the sun. 

Like grinning wolves that near the prey 

They urge the ship along; 
The rum beside the mast all day, 

All night the rover's song. 

Now clear and cold like silver spires 

The peaks of Mexico 
Where Cortez found a Spanish cure 

For Montezuma's woe; 

And found withal such shining pearls. 
Such emerald stones and gold. 

Thai every pirate sucks his cheeks 
Whene'er the tale is told. 

(forty -four) 



other Poems of the West 



Through windless seas of sodden grass 

Most evilly they fare, 
Till sails with rotting mold are green 

As any mermaid's hair, 
Till Hawkins and his gold they curse 

And curse each other there. 

Then California's golden shore 

With wondering joy they view, 
The friendly Indian's flashing oar 

Beside his swift canoe; 

The fair green hills whose silver rills 

Run singing to the sea 
Through fragrant meadows bright with bloom 

And wild bird's minstrelsy. 

His dream holds yet, the signs are met. 

Black Anak grins with glee; 
Lo! on the right St. Peter's cove, 

St. Catharine on the lee. 

Down come the sails, the anchor plumps, 

The rum goes gaily 'round. 
Were never men more fain to see 

Their shadows on the ground! 

With panting strokes they win the beach, 

Th' Ethiop leads the way: 
Their hot breaths whistle at his back. 

His thick lips seem to pray. 

Now here, now there, they search and swear. 

God, how they ramp and rave; 
Have they been diddled by a dream, — 

Then Christ that black man save! 

(forty-five) 



The Call of California 



With frenzied hands they hurl the sands, 

Rocks, shells and vines apart, 
In every eye the lust for gold. 

Murder in each foul heart. 

At last their streaming toil unstops 

A huge, hlack yawning hole; 
So murky, deep and deadly cold 

That fear grips every soul; 

But not for long, — they strike a flint 

The spark leaps out and there 
They eye the ghastly proofs that mark 

Bill Hawkin's secret lair! 

A shattered skull, a rusted blade, 

A shapeless pile of bones, — 
At which some spat and crossed themselves 

And spake in milder tones: 

Then swore more foully, passed the rum. 

Thrust forth a torch and saw 
What they had scourged the seas to gain 

And broken every law. 

Deep sunken in the cavern's mold 

The smoking lights reveal 
An ancient chest of Spanish oak 

With bands and bolts of steel; 

Upon whose cover, red with rust. 

Some dim device is seen; 
A Latin scrawl, a helmet plumed, V 

With ramping beasts between; 

(forty-six) 



other Poems of the West 



At sight of which the gloomy vault 
Resounds with oaths and cheers, — 

Forgotten then their scars and wounds 
Their hunger, cold and fears. 

Leaps forth the dreamer Anak then 
With hoarse unhuman yell — 

A tongueless eunuch huge and black, — 
Tusked like a fiend from Hell, 

Heaves up a mighty bowlder there. 
Bursts oak and steel in twain 

And lo! the long sought glittering hoard. 
Culled from the Spanish Main! 

THE TREASURE 

They do not dream, the torches gleam 

On gold and jewels there; 
Such gems as high-born Spanish dames 

On cold, proud bosoms wear; 

Sequins, pistoles, broad gold doubloons, 

Dull burnished silver bars. 
Carbuncles, emeralds, diamonds bright 

That sparkle like the stars; 

Pieces of eight, rich silver plate. 
Fair pearls like shining tears, 

With many a dainty trinket torn 
From shrieking beauty's ears; 

Brave rings with fingers in them yet, 
All fleshless, black and dried, — 

A grisly harvest, cutlass reaped 
From blue-veined hands of pride; 

(forty-seven) 



The Call of California 



Bejeweled blades of damascene 

From Spain's dark, bloody sod 
And great rose rubies, once the eyes 

Of some tusked, snouted god; 

Gilt crucifixes, candlesticks, 

Basons of beaten gold 
And chalices with diamond studs 

Lapped in a cloudy fold 
Of laces wrought by pallid nuns 

In Spanish convents cold. 

With furious haste such splendid spoil 

They heap together there 
Would buy thrones, virtues, souls of men, — 

St. Peter's ivory chair! 

Yet when each one his share surveys 

It shows so mean and small. 
In every envious heart is hatched 

The will to win it all. 

Greed shows its hissing, venomed head. 
Bursts forth each ancient hate; 

Not one can meet another's eye 
Nor trust his trusted mate. 

Like wolves they snarl, like foul fiends roar 

Around that gloomy cave. 
Nor hear the whistling wind without, 

Nor heed the lapping wave. 

Each tears his fellow's cursing throat 

Each lunging blade is red; 
Till 'round that mocking treasure lie 

But dying men or dead. 

(forty-eight) 



other Poems of the West 



In crimson pools that slowly creep 

Along the trampled mire 
A little space the torches hiss 

Like serpents ringed with fire; 

Then darkness seals each staring eye 

In that unhallowed grave, — 
Their requiem but the wailing wind, 

The moaning of the wave. 

Awhile the keen-eyed buzzard wheels 

Above the cavern's door, 
And horny crabs slide in and out 

Across the fetid floor; 

The gaunt coyote snuffing comes 

Then softly slinks away. 
While slowly rots the pirate ship 

Upon the lonely bay. 

The years slip by, then comes a day. 

Tense, boding, hot and still. 
No sound is heard from beast or bird 

Along the hazy hill; 

In whirls of dust the dry leaves dance 
Beside the listening shore, — 

How shrunk with fear the sea-bird's cry, 
How loud the ocean's roar! 

Then suddenly the wooded hills 
The earth's firm pillars rock 

And shuddering peaks as in a fit 
Their knees together knock; 

(forty -nine) 



The Call of California 



The ancient cliffs plunge in the deep, 

A thousand thunders sound,— 
Till where the sea-fowl fed her young 

But boiling waves are found! 

Gone is the pirate's cave, their gold 

Is scattered far and wide 
Along the careless ocean's floor 

The sport of every tide. 

Some little time their polished bones 

Are strewn along the shore 
Then from the memory of man 

They pass for evermore. 

Calvary 

^¥<HEN our dear Lord in deadly sorrow 

\\J bound 

Shed blood and water from his heart's deep 

wound, 
A little lad stood, boy like in the shade — 
By the rude Cross and Royal Victim made — 
And whirled his toy around in thoughtless 

glee 
Not knowing Him who bled for you and me: 
A bird sprang twittering from the grassless 

sod 
And perched upon the Tree that bore our God, 
Singing its sweet song to the fading day 
While Jesus' heart blood dripped full fast 

away. 

(fifty) 



other Poems of the West 



Old Mexico 



OLD Mexico of the long ago, 
Land of the silver rills, 
The vanished centuries linger yet 
Amid thy foot-worn hills. 

From thy snows and pines, thy dark, deep 
mines, 

Down to thy tropic sea 
There is never a thing a man might ask 

That may not be found in thee! 

Silver and gold in thy ridges rolled, 
Health from thy snow-capped peaks, 

Beautiful women with flashing eyes 
And sun-kissed olive cheeks; 

Culture that comes from the Spanish Moors 

Of a thousand years ago; 
And customs that come from the yellow East 

But how — no man may know. 

Faces as fair as ever were seen 

In any rose gardens of earth; 
And the slant-eyed, squat-nosed Mongol 
breed, — 

What land first saw their birth? 

Hieroglyphs older than Norsemen's runes, — 

Palaces ancient as Tyre, 
Where the smiling child of the sun today 

Bakes his corn-cakes on the fire. 

Romance and mystery over it all. 

Mystery always and ever. 
Old as the eldest of Egypt's gods, — 

Will the light come ever, never? 
(fifty-one) 



The Call of California 



The Death Pool at La Brea 

Do song birds hover about its edge, 
Where sad winds sigh through the 
stiff, brown sedge; 
No fleet wings brush with a wild bird's grace 
The sullen tide of the Death Pool's face. 

But ever it lies there still and cold. 
Wickedly waiting, and old — so old; 
Chilling the warmth of the genial sky 
Like a Gorgon's face with its lidless eye, 
The haunt of horror, a place of fear. 
Through many a dumb, unnumbered year. 

Up from the cold, dark chambers of death 
Oozes its pestilent, bubbling breath; 
Wrapped in the folds of its stiffened slime. 
The bones of monarchs of ancient time — 
Of huge, strange creatures of monstrous girth. 
Lords of the primitive manless earth! 

What secrets locked in that deep, dark 

grave. 
What wonders hid 'neath the thick, black 

wave. 
What dreadful shapes here have mirrored 

been 
That never by human eye were seen! 
When, under the old, old primal law 
Of bloody muzzle and crimson claw. 
The saber-tooth and the great cave-bear 
Tore the trumpeting mastodon there; 
While green-eyed dragons with leathern 

wings 
Screamed o'er the strife of the jungle kings. 

(fifty-two) 



other Poems of the West 

''Mangos de Manila"' 

^^yf^ANGOS de Manila"— 
^JL^ Hark to the mellow call, 

"Mangos de Manila," 

Most luscious fruit of all. 

"Mangos de Ma-nee-la" — 
I stop him in the shade, 

The Aztec, brown "frutero," 
And soon the sale is made. 

"Son muy dulces, jefe," 

Is what he says to me, 
"They're very sweet and juicy" — 

The truth we soon shall see. 

No mango forks are handy. 
So peel them with your knife; 

Say, stranger, did you ever 
Eat better in your life? 

The slippery fruit a-dropping 
Great gouts of liquid gold: — 

Just shut your eyes and swallow 
And dream of days of old. 

You hear the fountain tinkling, 
A strange speech meets your ear, 

The mango on your palate 
Brings it all to you here. 

ft somehow draws you nearer 
To India and the East 

(fifty-three) 



The Call of California 



To Afric's tawny jungles 
A thousand years at least. 

"Mangos de Manila," 

A golden link to all 
Of good Haroun-al-Raschid, 

And muezzin's plaintive call, — 

Arabian Nights and hasheesh. 
With all our childhood knew 

Of tales from land of faery 
Broidered with gold and blue. 

The harem's marble lattice, 
Where musky south winds sigh 

In "Mangos de Ma-nee-la" 
Our swart frutero's cry. 



Grief 



BT a sunken lake's edge in the dreary 
night, 
In a cypress silvered by the dead moon's 

light, 
With rain-chilled nest and heart all desolate, 
A widowed dove sits, mourning for her mate. 



Kismet 



^^^WAS Kismet that ever I knew him; 
^/ 'Twas Kismet that first drew me to 

him, 
And for Kismet I loved him and slew him! 

(fifty-four) 



other Poems of the West 



A Norther in Veracruz 

i^f<HEN the bluff and boisterous North 
Vl/ Wind 

Oomes to woo the Sunny South 
And a thousand roaring thunders 

Are the kisses of his mouth; 

When the sea birds seek a shelter 
In some battered, splintered rock 

And the walls of Juan Ullua 

Tremble 'neath the surge's shock; 

When the sails are blown to tatters, 

Timbers start in every joint. 
And the grey, bare-headed helmsman 

"Holds her down another point,'' 

When the booming winds of heaven 

Heap the surges o'er the deck 
And the tiger leaping lightnings 

Show the crushed and battered wreck; 

When the shark-toothed reefs are grinning. 

Waiting for their wounded prey; 
As the seething, rushing waters 

Urge the doomed ships down the bay; 

When the demons of the ocean 

Grip the goblins of the sky 
And the devils to the landward 

Fling their sandy arms on high; 

When the rain like Mauser bullets 
Hisses from the inky gloom; 

(fifty-five) 



The Call of California 



And the "Pale Horse," Death bestridden, 
Gallops where the breakers boom; 

When the sailors pray the Virgin, 
And the captain makes a vow, 

And the fisher boats are scudding 
Anywhere and anyhow; 

When amid the Gulfs wild fury 

And the screams from whitened lips 

Coral reefs are ground to powder 
As they grind the groaning ships; 

When the devil takes the tiller 
And his demons rule the deck 

And the ooze from bloody corpses 
Streams and reddens o'er the wreck; 

When each skipper out to seaward 
Trembles in his sodden shoes 

Then you know we have a "Norther,'^ 
Southward here in Veracruz. 




(fifty-six) 



other Poems of the West 



At the Ruins of Mitla 

MOURNFUL hollow in the old grey 
hills 
Where never a bird its glad sweet music 

trills, 
We shiver in the sunlight for a spell 
Still broods o*er Mictlan, — gloomy mouth of 
Hell! 

The narrow streamlet as of old runs on, 
But they who built these palaces are gone; 
They came, they went nor left one word 

behind, 
We search and dig but only questions find. 

The air is chill with voices of the dead. 
But not a word we catch of all they said; — 
That slant-eyed, squat-hipped folk of ancient 

day, 
Long since returned to primal dust and clay. 

We bow our heads to pass the temple door 
Where the plumed high-priest strode erect 

before; 
Each monolith still fitted to its groove 
Which time nof earthquake one hair's 

breadth could move. 

A pigmy race of men of mighty dreams 
Reared these quaint carven walls, these pon- 
derous beams, 
Wrought patiently in tireless feeble strength 

(fifty-seven) 



The Call of California 



Till the huge capstone lay in place at length, 
Showing through all the centuries it should 

last 
How here some nameless Indian Angelo 

passed. 

m: :¥ * 

Glad that we came, we gladly turn away 
Back to the wholesome breath of living day; 
The long whip cracks, the creaking coach 

appears 
To bear us from these ghosts of weird, wan 

years. 



s^ 



In the Cathedral Towers 
at Dawn 

'"TT'N the cathedral towers I stand at dawn, 
^Jl^ The slumber breaking bells have but 

begun 
Their silver clashing and the dallying day 
Comes slowly traveling upward from the sea. 

Beneath me all the streets are half astir 
With pious life, — servants and served alike. 
Close hooded from the sharp insidious air 
Bend churchward, heavenward, by a weary 

way. 
Thorn set, tear wet, by sin and sorrow urged. 
Below there toil-worn mothers faint and wan 

(fifty-eight) 



other Poems of the We 



Suckling at withered breasts their puny 

babes; 
And street-worn men with poverty their 

bride. 
Wake foodless in this city of the sun: 
While others, sons of Fortune's fickle smile, 
Who never toiled nor hungered, calmly sleep 
And over all the mercy of our God! 

Merrily ring the great Cathedral bells 
Over the life-sick multitude below; 
No voice for them calling from airy steeps 
Of heights celestial, bidding them return 
Out, onward, forward, upward to their God. 

Overhead the beauty of the morning stars 
Down there the endless misery of man! 
The fresh winds blow from out the great salt 

sea 
And down from scarped and thunder riven 

peaks 
But not for them, nor any voice of morn 
Comes caroling from dewy meadow grass. 

Alone and poor, poor and alone they live 
Hopeless and songless in this bright sun- 
land, 
And die at last sad-faced and hollow-eyed 
Mantled in Misery. Brethren, pray for such. 



(fifty-nine) 



The Call of California 

Titian's "Entombment of 
Christ" 

(Tzintzuntzan) 

aN old grey church all full of other 
years. 
With knee-worn pavement stained by bitter 

tears; 
Sunlight without but graveyard gloom within 
The house where God forgives His chil- 
dren's sin, 

A charnel odor loads the still, cold air 
As if the spirits of the dead were there, 
Until awe-stricken by the half-lit gloom 
We shudder as though shut within a tomb! 

But suddenly a window opens wide, 
And afternoon pours in its golden tide 
Showing us there upon the old stone wall 
Of Titian's genius masterpiece of all. 

A pallid Cfhrist all mutely tombward borne 
By faithful hearts so dumb and sorrow-torn, 
A few disciples there, by fear late driven — 
A Magdalene and Mother — anguish riven. 

O! pallid Christ, bruised by the Cross and 

Thorn, 
O! faithful hearts, no longer may ye mourn. 
The dear Lord sleepeth, soon to wake again 
And set His kingdom in the hearts of men! 

(sixty) 



other Poems of the West 



Old Cal Beaver 

IP yuh listen to my ditty I would have 
yuh fer to know 
How old Cal Beaver he resided long ago 
In a mud'n puncheon cabin on the banks o* 

Bitter Crik 
With his second wife, called Jinny, kinda 

droopy like'n sick. 
With a gee. Buck, haw, Buck dumpty diddle 

dee. 
His buckskin leggins flappin* down around 

his knee. 

He had a swarm o' young ones, they wuz 
wild as ary quail, 

A rifle 'n a dipper-gourd a hangin' frum a 
nail; 

A pair o' bronco milkin' cows some ornry 
sheep'n goats, 

A span o* wild cayuses n' a bunch o* squeal- 
in' shotes. 

With a gee. Buck, etc. 

A dozen brindle hounds would come a 

yelpin' when he'd yell, 
'N when they had a old coon treed it sure 

were merry hell. 
He fed on plug tubaker frum his childhood's 

early morn, 
'N loved his jug o' likker made uv lightnin' 

juice 'n corn. 
With a gee, Buck, etc. 

(sixty -one) 



The Call of California 



He shied at any sort o* toil, wuz easy over- 

het, 
But he could swing the gals all night at 

ev'ry dance — yuh bet; 
The preachers wuz his pizen though he*d 

bid 'em "light 'n tie," 
B\ir they talked religion while they et his 

Jinny's "pone" 'n "fry," 
With a gee, Buck, etc. 

He didn't have no neighbors closeter than a 

mile *r so. 
Fur it peeved him when he heard another 

feller's roosters crow. 
He "savvied" owls 'n all the "signs" fer 

weather, luck 'n sich, 
Frum markin* calves 'n cuttin' corns to 

bein' "water-witch." 
With a gee. Buck, etc. 

His biggest gal, Lucindy, she wuz pink 'n 

white 'n tall, 
*N purty as a limb o' peaches hangin* by 

the wall; 
She loved a feller down the crik, the same 

wuz Buck McGee, — 
The opposite uv her old dad, which were 

the rub, yuh see. 
With a gee, Buck, etc. 

He wore store clothes 'n slicked his hair, 'n 

didn't drink nur chaw, 
'N loved Lucindy fit tiih bust, but couldn't 

please her paw. 

(sixty -two) 



other Poems of the West 

So they determined for to wed, her pap a 

say in' "no," 
'N live forever to the tune uv "Rosin on the 

Bow." 
With a gee, Buck, etc. 

They wiaited till the "sign wuz right" 'n Cal 

were limber drunk, — 
The night t'he crazy Chinymun lone-handed 

'skun the skunk — 
He skun it smilin' to hisself: "Him belly 

good," he sed. 
While th' air in that vicinitee grew yaller, 

green *n red. 
With a gee, Buck, etc. 

*N while Cal nursed his jug that night "to 

take away the taste," 
Buck vamoosed with his lady love, which 

likewise wuz in haste. 
Some thirty mile away they roused a 

preacher out o' bed 
Who married them in gospel shape, — Lu- 

cindy blushin* red. 
With a gee. Buck, etc. 

Now listen to my narrative 'n hearken to 

my song. 
As things begin to limber up'n mosey right 

along, 
Fer Cal, when he were sobered some, 'n 

found his angel child 
Had dared to flee with Buck McGee, he sar- 

tinly wuz riled. 
With a gee. Buck, etc. 

(sixty-three) 



The Call of 



But first he quenched his burnin' thirst, he 

sure did likker up, 
Then ripped 'n tore like sum old boar 'r 

hydrefobious pup; 
His langwidge was. sulfurius, n' cum with 

such a rush, 
That Jinny 'n the kids they scooted pronto 

fer the brush. 
With a gee, Buck, etc. 

He saddled up a "pinto bronc," 'n cinched 

him on his gun. 
His rifle crost the saddle-hoirn, 'n then 

away he skun, 
A snortin' hell'n burnin' flames, his hair a 

streamin' free, 
*N yellin' as he pelted hy, he'd "git that 

Buck McGee." 
With a gee, Buck, etc. 

He used the quirt at ev'ry jump, a humpin' 

right along, 
A moanin' 'n a grievin' hard 'n thinkin' uv 

his wrong; 
*N sorta bellerin' to hisself: "I've lost my 

darlin' child. 
By Buck McGee, so cruelee my daughter's 

bin beguiled." 
With a gee. Buck, etc. 

But when he cum where they wuz at, the 

sun a shinin' bright, 
Lucindy met him at the door and helped 
him to alight: 

(sixty-four) 



other Poems of the West 



"It's over, paw, we're married now, yuh 

might as well agree. 
There hain't no call fer shootin' irons, — I'm 

Missus Buck McGee." 
With a gee. Buck, etc. 

Then: "Howdy, pop, shake hands," says 
Buck, "your lovely daughter there, 

I chased her on the level, Cal, I roped her 
on the square; 

Cum, rinse your tusks, yuh old galoot, 'n 
eat along with us, 

Yuh leather-bellied crokydile, yuh pizen- 
spittin' cuss." 

With a gee. Buck, etc. 

Which were a friendly sort o* talk that Cal 

rejoiced to hear, 
'N so he ceased, his bitter moan 'n dried 

the drippin tear; 
Lucindy meanwhile tellin' them the vittles 

they wuz hot, — 
Corn pone n' sweet putaters fried, n' rabbit 

in the pot. 
With a gee. Buck, etc. 

'N when Cal hit the trail fer home, beneath 

the meller moon. 
He felt at peace with all the world 'n 

hummed a old dance toon; 
'Twere mighty good to hear his hounds a 

yelpin' at the door, — 
'N so, goodnight to one 'n all, fer there 

hain't nothin' more. 

(sixty-five) 



The Call of California 

With a gee, Buck, haw Buck, dumpty did- 
dle dee. 

His buckskin leggins flappin* down around 
his knee. 



To the Folks Back East 

^T^HEN itfs ten degrees below, 
y^Ji And you're shoveling at the snow, 
We have eighty in the shade, out here: — 
When the blizzard 'round you roars, 
We are dining out of doors. 
And the mocking bird«i are singing, loud 
and clear. 

When you sit upon the stoves 
We are in our orange groves. 
Plucking golden apples of Hesperides: 
Roses blooming everywhere 
Shed their incense on the air. 
While you cough and shiver, snuff and stamp 
and freeze. 

Better sell a bunch of shoafcs 
Or a stable full of oats. 
Buy a ticket for this sunny land of ours; 
Leave the cruel sleet and snow. 
Come where our soft breezes blow 
Over leagues of orchard drifted deep with 
flowers. 

(sixty-six) 



other Poems of the West 



The Market Place in Ptiebla 

XKNOW the markets well, of every 
land, 
Prom Niji-novgorod to Samarkand; 
Ireland, Spain, Prance, old England, Turkey, 

Greece, 
Their spuds, oil, wine, ale, harems, bad 

police; 
So picturesque, quaint, curious, gaily vile, — 
But Mexico shows yet a different style. 

If you the Puebla market place would see, 
My gentle tourist friend, please follow me; 
Tread in my steps, cling to my hand, and 

hear 
The stunning babel rise, but have no fear. 

Wide, high and long, the market place you 
view, 

With a thousand different smells, and each 
one new; 

A thousand husky voices raised on high. 

That split the very rafters of the sky! 

Things never known, but in a hideous dream 

Are all about you, yet you must not' scream. 

On every side the simple booths we find. 

Stocked with the goods that suit the public 
mind: — 

Bottles, cheap combs, clay pots and look- 
ing glasses. 

Ribbons and laces for the Indian lasses; 

Horrific ballads a centavo each, 

(sixty-seven) 



The Call of California 



And dolorous tales to make the women 

screech; 
Such as were hawked in London's streets 

we guess, 
Under the merry rule of good Queen Bess; 
Herbs, powders, roots and armadillo shells 
Potions and plasters, and elusive smells. 
Brooms, brushes, ropes, metates and petates, 
Ollas, and jarros, and huge tompiates. 
Gay handkerchiefs and strings of gilded 

beads, 
And catechisms for the Indian's needs; 

Coffins, salt fish, wax candles, strings of 
onions. 

And holy oils to cure your warts or bunions. 

Straw hats, white cotton shirts and pan- 
taloons. 

Pineapples, peanuts, and cheap, red bal- 
loons; 

Rebozoes, blue and striped, peppers, babies; 

And mangy curs, flea gnawn, that hint of 
rabies ; 

Potatoes, pifias, turkeys, melons, rice, 

And pious, whining beggar, hunting lice. 

Who begs you for the love of gracious 
heaven, 

To share with him what God to you hath 
given; 

Shows his shrunk limb or loathsome sore 
and, prays 

The Virgin's blessing on you all your days; 

Fondas all redolent of that sweet ragout. 

Mole with turkey; heavenly Mexic stew; 

(sixty -eight) 



other Poems of the West 



Bare-legged "Mlnnehahas/* all forlorn, 
With linen sadly scant, and soiled, and 

worn 
Fried bovine entrails, sheep's heads boiled 

and baked; 
And as a proof the latter are not "faked," 
Patches of wool remain, the eyes stand out 
From the grim, grinning skulls — no room 

for doubt. 
Great heaps of corn in purple, blue and 

white; 
Skins full of pulque, the peon's delight; 

Vociferous parrots, gourds, and flowers and 

honey, 
And there a bawling child has lost its 

money. 
"By gosh, it smells, and, looks, and is so 

funny," 
So says the gaping tourist, wonder eyed. 
Whirled hither, thither, on the eddying tide; 
And while a thousand voices scream their 

wares, 
Blue-nosed Penobscot coughs, and snuffs 

and stares. 

But now the ancient junk shop comes in 
view; 

Rejoice, oh tourist, but be wary, too; 

The bright-eyed junk man, though of for- 
eign speech. 

Knows all the modern; arts that thou wouldst 
teach ; 

Retreat, advance, roll up his eyes and shrug 

(sixty-nine) 



The Call of California 



His shoulders o'er some "Maximilian rug;" 
Sigh, swear and lie, with hand upon hia 

heart; — 
The Puebla junk-shop man w^ell knows his 

part. 
But cast we now our eyes about the room, 
Where sits the junk man in his odorous 

gloom ; 
Old bottles, soldier caps, tin cans and spurs, 
Screws, nuts, bolts, locks, keys, chains, and 

feline furs, 
Old broken watches, clocks, fly-speckled 

books ; 
Torn Guadalupe chromos, halters, hooks. 
Frying-pans, fiddles, false money, monkey- 
wrenches ; 
Jewsharps, accordeons, and opera wenches 
In dirty photos ; brass rods, shovels, leather, 
Tooth brushes, combs, syringes^ — all to- 
gether. 
Bottles of medicine, but minus label: — 
Buy, use them, live thereafter, if you're 

able; 
Stuffed birds, skulls, almanacs, and keyless 

locks; 
Candlesticks, cartridges and old odd socks; 
Old flint-lock pistols, pewter spoons, false 

hair. 
Old wigs, bird cages, and sword-blades are 

there ; 
Umbrella ribs, saints headless, bullets, 

belts. 
Tea pots, pope's pictures, spittoons, and the 

pelt's 

(seventy) 



other Poema of the West 



Of goats, old saddles, bridles, broken toys, 
Such are the junk man's riches, — tourist's 
joys. 

But he who kens the secret of the maze; 
Skilled in the devious and dark winding 

ways. 
Oft times will chance upon a treasure rare, 
Half hidden in the dust and darkness there. 
Some fat' old tome in yellow vellumed gold, 
In Gothic letter, redolent of the mold 
Of cloister cell, and those dim, vanished 

years 
Of Aldine, Plantin, and the Elzevirs. 




(seventy-one) 



The Call of California 



La Casa de Contenta 

HA Casa de Contenta 
Is by a shady way, 
Where flowers bloom and glad birds sing 
Through all the long bright day. 

The peaks, like brown Franciscans, 

Their benedictions shed. 
Where Casa de Contenta 

Uplifts its humble head. 

Here oft the idle breezes 

Will pause awhile to play 
With butterflies and thrushes 

On many a blooming spray. 

Here shadows cool and quiet 

Their arms about us fold, 
Where apricots their boughs bend down 

With fruit of nugget gold. 

La Casa de Contenta 

Is like the wild bird's nest. 
Safe hidden from the careless throng 

Or idly curious guest. 

But for the friends who flnd it, — 

And many such there are, — 
La Casa de Contenta 

Hath neither lock nor bar. 

But ever words of welcome. 
And ever kindly looks, 

(seventy-two) 



other Poems of the West 



And everywhere, like healing halm, 
The ministry of books: 

Till he who tarries lingers, 

And lingering still would stay, 
In Casa de Contenta 

Forever and a day. 

Our Margaret 

ER willing little hands are still. 
Her eager little feet are cold, 
And mingled with earth's ancient mold, 
Her loving heart is dumb and chill. 



n 



But surely our dear Margaret 
Who left us long, long years ago. 
Is living somewhere still we know, 
Though much is mystery to us yet. 

Though wild birds sing above her head 
And o'er her breast white roses bloom. 
In some far distant radiant room 
Our little Margaret's steps are led. 

By some fair river's silver flow 
She listens to the nightingale 
And thinks on us, — she cannot fail 
To think on those who loved her so. 

(seventy-three) 



The Call of California 



Day Dreams 



HIKE music of a fountain in the forest 
.Remembrance of the day returns 
to me 
When, underneath the oaks, with my beloved 
I carved our names upon an anicent tree. 

The deep, green glade was languorous with 
Summer; 
Down from the hillside's thick-set chappa- 
ral 
Came sadly sweet the wood dove's plaintive 
mourning, 
A sentinel quail's insistent, clamorous call, 

Stilletto-like the vexed cicadas' chirping 
Shrilled piercingly; o'erhead a lone hawk 
screamed 
Then silence, — till we heard the forest 
breathing; 
So still it was we were as those who 
dreamed. 

Aye, dreamers were we, dear, that day to- 
gether; 

Dreaming of all the wondrous years to be; 
Years filled with glowing pages, love indited. 

In gold and purple writ, by you and me. 

What visions splendid then were ours, my 
darling, 
The cloud-built castles of a love-lit day; 

(seventy-four) 



other Poems of the West 



A brief space gleaming with the hues of 
heaven, — 
Too soon but mist and dripping skies of 
grey, 

Our Spanish argosies, all treasure laden, 
Breasting the shining seas with silken 
sails. 
Long since have sunk beneath the clashing 
billows. 
Whelmed by the bitter fog and whistling 
gales. 

The wrinkled oak that heard our vows, is 
fallen, 
The woodland path amid the friendly 
trees, 
Where long we lingered hand in hand, is 
vanished ; 
Airs gone or changed, save you — and 
memories; 

Save you, sweetheart, save you, my bonny 
Helen, 
Save you, dear wife, true comrade all the 
way; 
All else may go so I but hold you, change- 



Your heart to mine, forever, come what 
may. 



(seventy-five) 



The Call of California 



Hand in Hand 

GOME sit by me, my owni true love, 
In the soft firelight glow, 
And let me hold your hand in mine 

As in the long ago: 
Together hand in hand, my dear. 

As in the days of yore, 
When all your years were scant sixteen, 

And mine were but a score. 
Your brown hair tiien was rippling gold, 

Your cheeks were like the rose; 
Your laughing eyes like pools of light, 

Where deep, still water flows. 
Your dewy lips like honey-combs, 

Your hands so soft and white. 
Your voice was melody to me, — 

You were my life's delight. 

Your heart was true, your vows were few. 

But oh, so deep and sure; 
Your radiant love like lily buds, — 

So virgin chaste and pure. 
And when you gave your lips to me. 

That shining April day, 
It linked our lives together, love, 

Forever and for aye: 
Forever and for aye, sweet wife. 

Come shadow or come shine. 
The wonder of that mystic hour 

Shall thrill this heart of mine. 
Not two score years have dimmed the glow. 

Nor brushed the bloom away; — 
I loved you then, I love you now. 

My sweetheart still, today. 

(seventy-six) 



other Poems of the West 



The Ship of Good Fortune 

g FAIRY ship is sailing, 
A sailing o'er the sea; 
Ta-ka-ra Bu-ne, lucky ship, 
To bring good gift's to me. 

In quaint Japan, whenever 

Ta-ka-ra Bu-ne comes 
Old men and boys make merry noise 

And pound their peach- wood drums; 

The maidens, crowned with, blossoms, 
Soft voiced as summer's breeze. 

With song and play dance all the day 
Beneath the cherry trees. 

For in that ship of Fortune 
The Seven Kind Gods are seen, 

In cloth of gold and silver dressed 
And silks of wondrous sheen: 

Eb-i-su, god of plenty, 
With whom there is no lack, 
A basket crammed with crimson fish 
Is slung upon his back. 

Dai-ko-ku, lord of riches. 

Shakes from his magic maul 

Bright golden coins and children try 
To catch them .as they fall. 

Ben-zai-ten, Queen of Beauty, 
Sits on her dragon chair; 

(seventy-seven) 



The Call of California 



In one fair hand the key of love, 
In one a jewel rare. 

And there Fu-ku-ro-ku-jin, 

His wrinkled head so tall ; 
With staff and crane and magic fan. 

The wisest god of all. 

Bish-a-mon, god of glory, 
For whom the warriors fight, 

His lacquered armor shines afar. 
His spear a beam of light. 

With snow-white beard, Ju-ro-jin, 

The god of long life, he; 
With mitred cap and crooked staff, 

A tortoise at his knee. 

The children's god is Ho-tei, 
With bursting bag of toys. 

The fattest, jolliest god of all; 
Who loves the girls and boys. 

Come quickly, ship of fortune. 
Across the dark blue sea; 

Spread wide your silken silver sails 
And waft good gifts to me. 

For earth is full of dying 
And bloody tears and pain; 

Oh! come, bright fairy ship and bring 
Our childhood's heart again. 



(seventy-eight) 



other Poems of the West 



When Elsie Sings 

^T^HEN Elsie sings, the shadowed room 
\J^ Becomes a bower of wild-rose bloom ; 
We hear fainfc whisperings of trees, 
The mellow hum of golden bees. 
The glad birds warbling in the glen, — 
It's Springtime in our hearts again 
When Elsie sings. 

When her pure voice is lifted high 
We see the white clouds sailing by, 
The joyous lark and bobolink 
In raptures by the river's brink, 
And lovers straying hand in hand 
Through the green lanes of fairlyland, — 
When Elsie sings. 

Her voice, like some rare golden key, 
Unlocksi the gates of memory: 
Till precious things from vanished years 
Shine through a mist of sudden tears, — 
The secret treasures of the heart, 
Life's hidden, hallowed, better part, 
When Elsie sings. 

Dear faces smile on us again; — 
We hear the tramp of marching men; — 
The voice of prayer, the hymn of praise, 
Float up from old plantation days, — 
While Aft'on water ripples clear 
And Bonnie Doon draws wondrous near, — 
A3 Elsie sings. 

(seventy-nine) 



The Call of California 



It makes the grieving heart rejoice 
To hear the sweet lilt of her voice. 
Hope's star beams with a brighter ray, 
And Heaven seems less far away: — 
We almost see before our eyes 
The shining hills of Paradise, 
When Elsie sings. 




other Poems of the West 



Incidental Philosophy 



^Or 



THE PRECIOUS THINGS OF LIFE 

^^E start out in life with the idea that' if 
^25/ we have but a big enoug*h sackful we 
can buy the world. Well, there are lots of 
things tcr sale in the world, lots of things 
with a price tag on them. But after we get 
a little sense we find that after all the most 
dear and precious things in life are not for 
sale, are beyond price, and if we ever pos- 
sess them some one must give them to us 
freely, gladly and absolutely; otherwise they 
can never be ours. But many do not be- 
lieve this, many do not understand this. 
Blessed are they who believe and under- 
stand. 

When St. Francis preached to the birds 
out in the woods, it was because he loved 
them, calling them his little brothers. And 
the little birds loved him in return, and 
fluttered about him, singing and showing 
their joy at his company. For such is the 
nature of love: it always gives itself natur- 
ally, spontaneously, gladly and freely for 
something like itself: it never sells itself, 
nor trades itself, but just gives itself. The 
counterfeits are for sale and the cheap imi- 
tations are priced in all the market places, 
but love, true, tender, trusting love, does 
not sell itself ever at any price. Happy the 
man or woman to whom this truth is known. 

(eighty-one) 



The Call of California 



After all is said and done, love is the one 
great tonic, beautifier and rejuvenator. 
Love is the real fountain of youth, the 
spring of purest, deepest joy in life. A 
true lover, who is truly loved in return by 
his or her mate, is ever young at heart, no 
matter what the mirror or almanac may 
say. Time puts no wrinkles in the heart 
that loves and is loved. 

After all the poets and novelists have 
sung or written on the world's oldest, most 
universal tiieme, it will surprise some folks 
to learn that the truest wisest, most beauti- 
ful description of love, was penned by St 
Paul, in the thirteenth chapter of the first 
epistle to the Corinthians, It should be 
written in letters of gold, and hung on the 
walls of our homes, for it is indeed: "The 
Greatest Thing in the World." 

^ H: H^ 

APPRECIATION 

Because we are just ordinary mortals and 
not angels, we covet appreciation from 
those who are nearest and dearest to us, — 
expressed appreciation that we can feel, 
and hear and cherish. We get no good from 
the kisses on our tombstone, from tiie lov- 
ing words uttered over our unresponsive 
dust. Fathers and mothers, wives and hus- 
bands, sons and daughters, so often wait 
and long for the expressed appreciation 
that never comes until t-oo late to do any 
good. 

Sometimes we receive some sort of a gift 

(eighty-two) 



other Poems of the West 



that represents a money value, but that is 
not what we want, we want something from 
somebody's heart. If, when things go 
wrong, or the way is rough and our sky 
is overcast, the right person should just say 
to us in the right way: "I do appreciate you, 
I'm glad I have you, and I just could not 
get along without you," it would help so 
much. It would freshen our heart, revive 
our courage, clear our sky, put a song in 
our soul and add years to our lives. Just 
a little honest, heart'-born, expressed ap- 
preciation, is better than remorse later on. 

He H: H: 

ART AND HURRY 

I know a man, plain and unpretending, 
who can produce wonderfully artistic and 
beautiful things if you give him a few 
pieces of lumber, a few tools and lots of 
time, — if you don't stand over him cracking 
a whip, telling him to "hurry up that art 
stuff." For art cannot hurry, must take 
its oiwn time and express itself in its own 
way. Art is as independent* as an oak-tree, 
that must develop slowly along the lines of 
its own nature. We still admire and copy 
and treasure the fragments of artistic work 
that remain from those long gone years 
when the worker was unhurried at his task. 
But who will care for the fragments of the 
cheap and hideous stuff we turn out now 
in carload lots, hurriedly, boastfully. Hurry 
is the enemy of art and the foe of real 

(eighty-three) 



The Call of California 



beauty in all the world^s workshops. The 
perfect processes of Nature are unhurried. 

* * * 

THE LANGUAGE OF KINDNESS 
When St. Francis preached his sermon to 
his "brother birds," they did not know 
what it was all about, nor to what church 
he belonged. But they well understood one 
thing and that was that he was kind to them. 
The language of kindness is understood 
everywhere. A horse, a dog, a cat, can 
understand it, and children and women and 
even men can recognize and understand the 
speech of kindness, almost anywhere in the 
world. 

Folks may hot be able to meet our argu- 
ments about religion or points of doctrine, 
but they can easily tell whether we have 
any kindness of heart or not. And if our 
theology of whatsoever brand, does not pro- 
duce fruit of kindliness, it needs to be 
taken to the garage and overhauled, for it 
is only hitting on one cylinder. 

How little it means to say of a man: "He 
was worth a million when he died," and 
how much it means when we can say: "He 
was always a kind-hearted man." For as 
kindness is the essence of true gentility so 
is it the fundamental principle of all real 
religion, of all true gentleness of soul. 

* * * 
VISION 

"Where there is no vision the people 
perish." These words are as true today as 

(eighty -four) 



other Poems of the West 



twenty-five centuries ago, in spite of all the 
Gradgrinds and Bounderbys in the world. 
The men and women who can see, the seers 
are ever the light bearers, leaders and saviors 
of the race. And it is not merely a question 
of eyes, nor of eye-sight, but goes much 
deeper than that. It is what makes the 
difference between the real artist and the 
photographer, the sculptor and the marble 
cutter, t'he builder and the bricklayer — the 
one merely has eyes, while the other has 
vision. 

And by the possession of vision one be- 
comes a member of the great brotherhood 
not only of the illustrious dead and living 
among men, but also of the flowers, trees, 
rocks, rills, birds, winds, clouds, peaks and 
stars. Vision is the golden key tthat un- 
locks for us the treasures of the universe, 
hidden in a thousand radiant, jeweled 
rooms: it is what illuminates the dull drab 
pages of lifers monotonous manuscript with 
celestial colors, and fadeless beauty. Lord, 
open our eyes that we may see, give us 
vision. 

* * * 

LOVERS AND SWEETHEARTS STILL 
THOUGH MARRIED 
After the honeymoon, the honeyed years; 
after the bride the wife; after the first, lit- 
tle ripe fruits the glory and richness and 
wonder of the fruit harvest; when the 
maiden is a woman and the love-light in her 
eye in some way blends with the dancing 

(eighty-five) 



The Call of California 



fire-light of the hearthstone of home. 
After the blossom hroidered honeymoon 
trail, the long trail together up and down 
the hills and valleys of real life, in true 
comradeship, sharing all things, hoping, 
enduring, rejoicing together in all things all 
the way. All things, not some things only. 
Sharing all things gladly, lovingly, unself- 
ishly, habitually, hand in hand, heart to 
heart, cheek to cheek, eye to eye. Lovers 
and sweethearts still, though married, 
through all, in all, in spite of all, yea, be- 
cause of all that may come. Give others 
what they will, but give me that. 

* * * 
CHURCH TAGS 

The important thing is not what sort of 
a church tag you have hanging to you, but 
are you delivering any goods. If you have 
nothing but an old church label sticking on 
you, then get out of the way and don't 
block up the sidewalk; let the old truck 
drive up that wants to deliver something. 
You will need to show St. Peter something 
more than a beautifully engraved church 
tug in order to get through heaven's gate, 
and take a reserved seat inside. 

* * * 

SENTIMENT 
Some people laugh at sentiment, con- 
sidering it as a sign of weakness. But it 
seems to me that sentiment is the border 
of blue and gold and crimson around the 
pages of life's book, the beautiful illumin- 

( eighty-six) 



other Poems of the West 



ated capitals, lighting up and brightening 
the otherwise dreary and monotonous text. 

I am sorry for the man or woman out of 
whose lives all sentiment has gone, — all 
of the bird songs, dew-drops and rainbows, 
all of life's wonder and fairyland. 

For w^hen the dream, t'he vision, the glam- 
our, and all the sweet illusions have van- 
ished, what is left but a hard, dusty high- 
way, under a scorching sky? 

* * * 
EMPTY FACES 

You see them so often — empty faces, dull 
and vacant as an old deserted house or the 
clay-bank of a brick-yard. They have eyes, 
but they see not, ears, but' they hear not, 
neither do they understand. 

You see them on the streets, at the mov- 
ing picture shows, wherever some "'barker" 
is bawling his wares, standing ox-like, star- 
ing, gaping, vacantly wondering. And I 
often think of the drab, dull, barren monoto- 
nous lives behind those empty faces, like 
Markham's "IV^an With the Hoe." Oh, the 
pity of it, the commonness of it, the tragedy 
of it. 

* H: H: 

SHORT CUTS 
Short cuts are the fashion in these days, 
short' cuts to wealth, health, beauty, knowl- 
edge, success and even to heaven. We 
have books offered that will teach us "Span- 
ish at a Glance," give us "Health Without 
Any Discomfort," provide an "Easy Method 

(eighty-seven) 



The Call of California 



of Acquiring Wealth," open an "Easy Road 
to Knowledge," or "A Comfortable and Pleas- 
ant Way to Heaven," "Wholl buy, who'll 
buy?" 

But too often the short cut lands one in 
jail, or the hospital or the asylum or in hell, 
for it is the testimony of Ohe ages that 
there is no short cut to any real excellence 
in anything of worth. We must pay the 
price in full in some fashion, for there is no 
achieving of excellence without great labor. 
Something for nothing is but the dream of 
a fool or a rascal. As Emerson says: "Step 
up and take what you will," quoth God, 
"but first pay the price." The world's su- 
perstructure of real civilization rests on 
great blocks that cost sweat to hew and 
shape and put in place, brow sweat, brain 
sweat, yea, at times bloody sweat in silent 
and awful Gethsemanes. 

If your plans for success propose to avoid 
and eliminate all honest sweat by means of 
some short cut, you will fail and fall. Only 
those whose brows are wet with honest 
sweatj have the right to sit at the king's 
table, for that is the seal of their sonship 
and the badge of their royalty. There is no 
short cut to a place in the Hall of the Im- 
mortals. 

* * * 

CHEERFUL SAINTS 

As Saint Francis trudged along the roads 

of Italy he sang a great deal, and was a 

very cheerful sort of a saint, — which is the 

(eighty-eight) 



other Poems of the West 



best kind to be if you are thinking of going 
into that business. As someone has well 
said : 

"We all are weary travelers along 

Life's dusty way. 
If any man can play the pipes, in God's 

name let him play." 

Some of the saints whom I have met do 
not seem to be very hilarious over it; it 
seems to be a very doleful and melancholy 
business for them to be good, and some of 
them are about as cheerful company as an 
old crock of buttermilk. The only way they 
can be happy in heaven will be to get off in 
a corner and put up a screen and be miser- 
able together. They think they have re- 
ligion when it is only indigestion. 



When we look back over our lives most 
of us find many things to regret, but we are 
never sorry for having brought gladness to 
a child's heart. It costs so little and it 
often means so much, to give pleasure to a 
little child. 

•p I* H* 

He who wrongs and deceives you may 
think he is harming you, but somehow he 
alone is truly harmed, and his evil returns 
on his own pate, for, as St. Augustine says: 
"In all the universe, nothing can truly 
harm me except my own self." 

(eifirhty-nine) 



The Call of California 



THE HURRYITIS 

Sonne have appendicitis, bronchitis, ton- 
silitis, or meningitis, but they are as naught 
in comparison with those who are afflicted 
by that peculiarly American ailment — the 
hurryitis. It is because of that trouble that 
we are increasing the number of our hos- 
pitals, asylums, sanitariums, sanitoriums, 
rest cure esitablishments and cemeteries 
from Maine to California, — ^because of the 
little old American hurryitis. 

When the doctor makes out th^ certificate 
he does not use the word hurryitis, but 
"words of learned length and thundering 
sound," to excuse the size of his bill. But 
if he should put down the simple truth he 
would often say: "Another case of the 
hurryitis. That is what has brought him to 
the hospitul, asylum, or undertakers so long 
ahead of time." 

When the hurryitis gets a good grip on a 
fellow, he will begin to talk to himself and 
others something in this fashion: "Well, 
I'm going to get mine while the getting is 
good, and Fm going to get it now. I'm not 
going to be fifty years about it as grandad 
was, he was too slow, I'm going to show 
the folks a few wrinkles and fill my sack in 
a hurry. And I'm going to get some of the 
other fellow's pile, too, if he doesn't look 
out, for I'm going to work while he's asleep. 
I don't intend to sleep any on the job. And 
I'm going to work while he's off on a vaca- 
tion, for I intend to cut out all vacation 

( ninety > 



other Poems of the West 



foolishness. Fm just going to fill my sack 
as soon as possible, tie her up good and 
tight, hang a few joy-bells on me, and have 
a good time for a long while." 

Which is certainly a fine and dandy pro- 
gram. But just about that time something 
pops inside of him. The next day he goes 
to the doctor and says: "Doc, I've unex- 
pectedly busted something inside of me. I 
can't get at it to see what it is, but you 
put the X-ray on me and tell me what the 
trouble is. I've got the price, so hurry up 
and stick a new thing in me and let me 
get back on the job, for I have a lot of im- 
portant business waiting for me at the of- 
fice." 

The doctor puts the X-ray on him, and 
then shakes his head as he hums and haws 
and taps his nail with his gold-rimmed eye- 
glasses, and says to him: "My friend, I'm 
very sorry to inform you that I have no 
extra parte like the one you broke. There 
was only one and you've smashed it. What 
made you do it? Didn't' you have any 
sense? Did you think you were made out 
of cast-iron inside, or built like an ostrich 
or an alligator? Why, man, you haven't 
any more sense than a bull-dog. A bull-dog 
just has brains enough to take hold and 
hang on, he doesn't know enough to let go. 
Why didn't you let go once in a while and 
go a fishing?" 

And the man answers: "Well, Doc, you 
see I was in a hurry to get my sack full, and 

(ninety-one) 



The Call of California 

1^— — — i— — — ^— — ■— — rt 

I was afraid that if I let go for a while the 
other fellow would get some of mine while 
I was gone." 

"Well, I'm sorry," says the doctor, "but 
you're through now, you're done, you're 
nothing now but a piece of scrap iron. I 
may be able to patch you up so you can 
wobble along for a time on one cylinder. 
But your good days are over, because 
you didn't know enough to let go once in 
a while and go a fishing." 

And the man goes out looking down the 
end of his nose, and has forgotten all about 
the little joy-bells, and begins to live on 
a prune and a cracker a day. This is no 
fairy story, so beware of the hurryitis. It's 
a good thing to know when to take hold 
and hustle; but it shows just as much 
gumption to know when to let go and go 
a fishing. 







(ninety -two) 



The Call of California 



Tost Tenebras ILucein Spero 

l^xHE tides of life will thunder as before, 
l ^_y The ancient riddles still remain unread, 

When I am with the unresponsive dead. 
Lapped in a seamless silence, evermore, 

But, when I've gone the way of all the earth, 
Down to the voiceless chambers of the 

dust, 
When men have judged me, as they will 
and must, — 
Oh, may there be of charity no dearth. 

I would that for a little space at least, 
A few brief days, some hearts might think 

of me; 
For my sake drop one tear of memory 

As they sit down to life's recurrent feast. 

And yet, I would not have them grieve for 
me. 
Nor dim the gladness of one golden day. 
Nor cease the shuttling of their work and 
play 
When from the wheel unshackled I am free : 

Free, then, to roam the chartless fields of 
space ; 
To learn the myst'ries of the morning 

stars ; 
The secrets locked behind celestial bars; 
Perchance tO' meet the Maker, face to face! 

(ninety -three) 



other PoemB of the West 



For there are things that I have longed to 
know, — 
Unanswered questions from the book of 

Job; 
Dim hieroglyphs about Creation's robe; 
Vague footprints of the gods of long ago. 

Yea, I have dreamed tiiat when the fetters 
fall 
That bind me to this blindly whirling 

wheel, 
I might begin to nearer see and feel 
Something of life's stupendous, endless All! 

Swifter than light to pass through ether air, 
Back to the fountain heads whence all 

hath sprung, 
See gods at work as when the sea was 
young; 
Be of the gods myself, somehow, some- 
where. 

But nearness is not knowledge, in all things: 
The slow ant crawling o^er the pyramid 
Sees naught of Rameses nor works he 
did; 
The swallow skims the lake on flashing 
wings. 

But what to her the gulfs that lie below? 

So, when this weary wheel at last shall 
cease. 

And I perchance have won to Betelgeuse, 
Still comes the question: can I surely know? 

(ninety-four) 



The Call of California 



Will I be I and rise to such great height, 
Striding amid the stars, all unafraid, 
Viewing them but as pots the Potter 
made, 
Whose refuse shards gild the dread comet's 
flight? 

Radiant, serene, shall I with level eyes 
Behold the angel of Apocalypse 
Gather the clashing seas with all their 
ships 

Back to the secret cisterns of the skies? 

Like calls to like: we cannot understand 
What lies beyond that birthplace of the 

tomb. 
Nor what awaits us in that other room. 

But God will take his children by the hand 

And lead them in a way they have not 
known. 
By paths of splendor they have never 

dreamed, 
And show them whence His quenchless 
glory streamed 
From clustering suns about; His love-borne 
throne. 

So, when my tired eyes have lost their light. 
And I am gone the old, old way, — alone, 
Grave then these sturdy words upon my 
stone, 

**Post tenebras nunc lucem s^jero*'— write. 



(ninety-five) 



other Poems of the West 



INDEX 

Page 

The Call of California. 6 

At the Old Mission ^ 8 

Bodies and Souls „ 10 

Junipero Serra ^ 11 

The West ^ ^ 12 

Mt. Rubidoux at Dawn 15 

The Mission Inn _ 17 

Down the Grade With Bob 19 

The Road by Panama 21 

Mexico ^ 24 

The Land of the Arriero ^ 25 

A Thunder Storm in Puebla. 28 

Taking the Veil (Mexico) „ 30 

Old House in Puebla, Mexico 32 

A Mexican Beggar ^ ....33 

A Glimpse of Mexico at Home 34 

In the Days of the Buccaneers 38 

Calvary 50 

Old Mexico 51 

The Death Pool at La Brea 52 

"Mangos de Manila" 53 

Grief 54 

Kismet 54 

A Norther in Veracruz 55 

At the Ruins of Mitla 57 

In the Cathedral Towers at Dawn 58 

Titian's "Entombment of Christ" 60 

Old Cal Beaver 61 

To the Folks Back East 66 

The Market Place in Puebla 67 

La Casa< de Contenta 72 

Our Margaret 73 

Day Dreams 74 

Hand in Hand 76 

The Ship of Good Fortune 77 

When Elsie Sings 79 

Incidental Philosophy 81 

Post Tenebras Lucem Spero 93 



(ninety-six) 



LBJa'23 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




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